Esther McCarthy: Do owners really end up looking like their pets?

I had hoped that by adopting a lurcher, I too would magically become slender and svelte. Alas, the opposite seems to have occurred.

Esther McCarthy: You know the way they say owners start to look like their pets?

You know the way they say owners start to look like their pets? I had hoped that by adopting a lurcher, I too would magically become slender and svelte and a bit partial to sprinting. Alas, the opposite seems to have occurred.

This week alone, three different people commented on the dog’s weight.

“There’s a well-fed dog,” said one, giving his tummy a friendly poke.

“That’s the fattest greyhound I’ve ever seen,” said another.

I clutched him to my bosom and replied, “Hey. For your information, he’s not a greyhound … or fat. How dare you, sir. Now give us our doughnuts and we’ll be off, never to return to your bodyshaming food truck.”

We both know he’ll see me next week.

Then the man collecting the charity shop bags the other morning whistled in appreciation.

“There’s a fine-looking dog,” he said. “Did you ever race him?”

Esther McCarthy's dog Bodhi

“Oh no,” I simpered, delighted at the opportunity to bore/impress someone with my ‘he’s a rescue’ spiel.

I don’t care what anyone says, half the reason people adopt a dog is for the social currency. It’s shorthand for, ‘aren’t I a good person? Behold, my generosity of spirit’. It cancels out any accidental evil you might have been a party to.

If there is someone on a cloud with a notebook keeping score, I’m betting adopted a puppy is a no-brainer for pro column.

But before I could launch in, he added: “You’re better off, he’d definitely beat you. HAHAHAHA.” A comedian, eeeh?

Then, for good measure, he added: “Although he’s carrying a few extra pounds, is he?” That was not very charitable. I had to pull out my ‘how dare you, sir’ card once again.

For the record, we feed him healthy, balanced meals twice a day, I promise. I give the kids rubbish I wouldn’t dream of giving Bodhi. Then again, I don’t have to pick up the kids’ excrement twice a day. The mutt doesn’t get corn on the cob, put it that way.

Anyway, poor booboos Bodhi got a mysterious cut this week. A nasty, deep gash meant a trip to the vet, stitches, staples and, of course: The Cone of Shame.

He’s also not allowed out on his usual three to four walks a day. We’ve been given strict instructions to keep him indoors, no exercise, just lots of rest for 10 days.

Esther McCarthy's dog Bodhi in 'The Cone of Shame'

That is going to be tough. It’s like asking a bird not to fly, or Enoch Burke not to hang around school gates. The dog lives for exercise, and does unspeakable things to my scatter cushions when he doesn’t get enough of it.

It also means we’ll need to adjust his calories, otherwise he’s going to go full on canine Marlon Brando, and his breed is not supposed to have jowls, you guys.

As if that weren’t enough, Bodhi and I also managed to get matching ill-advised haircuts this week. He got shaved around his wound, a perfect square, and I … well, I don’t know what came over me. Boredom? Time pressure? A moment of madness? Whatever it was, I cut my own hair.

I should know better. I really should. This isn’t like when kids cut their dolls’ hair and then practise on each other. It’s not cute. And just my luck, hairbands are so last season, and wearing hats indoors makes my head itch.

The last time I cut my own hair was during covid, when we could barely get to the shops, never mind a hairdresser.

I thought I’d look edgy with a daring fringe, the kind art students and baristas in cool coffee shops sport. Unfortunately, like many critical moments in my life, I went too far.

I ended up looking like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. I kept snipping, even when sense, logic and my entire family screamed ‘STOP’.

Remember in Friends when Phoebe gives Monica a haircut and mixes up Demi Moore with Dudley Moore? It was that kind of vibe, but I had nobody to blame but myself, a blunt pair of scissors, and an unearned sense of confidence that I would make a great hairdresser. How hard could it be? Turns out pretty damn hard.

This time, I stayed away from the fringe and just went at the split ends … but again, I didn’t know where to stop and accidentally gave myself layers — if not in personality, at least I now have some in my hair.

So here we are: the dog and I, pottering around the house with bad haircuts and pot bellies.

Like two wounded soldiers, we used to have potential, he and I. Now he stumbles around like a furry lamp, bouncing off doorframes, knocking over his water dish, backing out of doors.

Esther McCarthy's dog Bodhi in 'The Cone of Shame'

Every time he bumps into something, he looks at me with a betrayed expression. ‘It’s not my fault,’ I want to shout, as I drift around the place avoiding mirrors and consequences.

I look at him there lying awkwardly in his messy bed, slightly dishevelled, overfed, under-walked, creatively groomed.

Hey, it’s true, owners do end up looking like their pets after all.